


hide away, hide away

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blow Jobs, Cuddling, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 4- Alternate, Quentin Coldwater Is Alive, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 03, Slice of Life, but like in a soft way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: There’s a little reading nook in the Physical Kids Cottage at Brakebills. It seems tiny from the outside, but it’s actually just small enough to be cozy and has a high enough ceiling that even Eliot can sit comfortably in it without constantly having to hunch. With warm golden lights and comfortably cushy padding and pillows and blankets, it’s the perfect place to make a little nest and hide from the world.Quentin, to the surprise of absolutely no one who’s ever met him, loves it in there.Three vignettes at various points where Quentin and Eliot steal a moment for themselves.





	hide away, hide away

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this lovely backstage moment](https://disappearinthemoonlight.tumblr.com/post/141630654194/now-thats-a-physical-kid) where we get a closer look at a piece of the Physical Kids Cottage. Not explanation is given for Quentin being alive post-S4 because fuck canon. Honestly I just wanted an excuse to write cuddling, but like every Magicians fic I’ve written, Quentin Coldwater decided he needed to suck a dick before it was over. 
> 
> Thanks as ever to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) without whom my writing would not be what it is. Thanks for the cheerleading and the hand holding and the beta’ing.

There’s a little reading nook in the Physical Kids Cottage at Brakebills. It seems tiny from the outside, but it’s actually just small enough to be cozy and has a high enough ceiling that even Eliot can sit comfortably in it without constantly having to hunch. With warm golden lights and comfortably cushy padding and pillows and blankets, it’s the perfect place to make a little nest and hide from the world.

Quentin, to the surprise of absolutely no one who’s ever met him, loves it in there. 

It’s also one of the few common spaces where actual productive studying was possible, in Eliot’s opinion. Though, that is probably his own fault. He’d spent the better part of two years cultivating a reputation as the life of the party, a drop-everything-and-make-a-drink-for-you, down for anything for the hell of it kinda guy. Sitting on the couch trying to study is never a successful endeavor, and he really, really needs to study.

This wasn’t an exam he could fuck his way to an A on. Professor Eliss has less than no interest in men, and Margo was too wrapped up in her _whatever_ to take one for the team this time. So. Studying.

So when Eliot open the sliding door to the reading nook to find himself faced with a curled up little bundle of Coldwater, he had two choices. Try and go study in his dorm room, which would invariably result in him getting distracted by weed or a dildo or fucking literally anything that wasn’t ancient Sumerian, or:

“Hey there, Q,” he says cheerfully, and proceeds to _climb over_ Quentin and into the far side of the reading nook.

Quentin squawks a little, flailing in protest, but Eliot doesn’t care. If he doesn’t want to share, he can leave.

He doesn’t, just grumbles about it, in that delightfully bitchy way of his, that permanent scowl on his face. Eliot watches him get settled, grinning a little as weird sticky affection settles into his chest, watching his high strung little nerd slide the door shut and settle back down into his little mountain of blankets.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Quentin asks, once they’ve gotten comfortable. It’s surprisingly doable, taking opposite ends of the nook, Eliot sitting against the far wall while Quentin slouches across from him. It’s almost– cozy.

“Studying,” Eliot says lightly, pulling out the text he’s meant to be translating and his fucking Ancient Sumerian Dictionary, fuck this entire school in the ass without lube. “Don’t you dare tell anyone, I have a reputation to maintain.”

Quentin snorts, rolling his eyes, and starts digging his socked feet under Eliot’s thighs. Eliot lets him, lets Q steal some of his warmth. Seems like a fair price to pay for being interrupted in the middle of his day.

It’s actually really comfortable, for a little while. Quentin doesn’t seem bothered by his presence at all, but doesn’t really try to talk to him either. He’s got his nose buried in one of the Fillory books, which is also zero-percent surprising, but he’s absorbed in it. Whenever Eliot looks up, trying to drag cuneiform script up out of his protesting memory, his eyes land on Q.

As things to stare at while you desperately try to remember why you thought going to grad school was a good idea went, there were worse options. 

It takes Eliot a little while to notice that Quentin’s stopped reading, book laying open on his chest while he stares up at the wood paneling above him. Contemplative or sad, Eliot can’t quite tell, but there’s a downward tug to his mouth. 

Sensing Eliot’s gaze, Quentin’s eyes flick to him, and then back up to the wood paneling of the reading nook. “You ever think about how bullshit the whole concept of a happy ending is?” he asks, voice quiet and muted in that way he gets when he’s feeling too much and trying desperately to hold it in. “Endings aren’t happy. It’s never good when things end.”

“Maudlin, but not inaccurate,” Eliot says carefully, folding up his notebook and texts, putting them aside while he looks at Q carefully. 

Quentin swallows, eyes going wet in the corners, flicking around but not meeting Eliot’s. “Yeah, well, it’s fucking bullshit.” He gets out, but it’s strangled, his brow pinching together as whatever’s eating him up inside starts to bubble over. 

“Your dad?” Eliot guesses, because fuck, he’s not an idiot, he knows what’s going on. Margo had talked to Q after the Welters Tournament, but only because she’d gotten to him first. She also had some concept of what _liking your dad_ might feel like, so. Maybe better her than Eliot, really. But Eliot’s the one who’s here, the one Quentin had let into his hiding place, the one he was letting see him fall apart. “Are things getting worse with him?”

Quentin just nods, twisting a onto his side, curling in on himself with his arms around his chest like he’s trying physically hold himself together. From this angle, Eliot can see that he’s starting to shake a little as the tears come. And, shit, fuck.

How do straight boys comfort each other?

Probably reaching out and rubbing his shin isn’t the way to go. Is it? Is that even fucking comforting?

Except this is Quentin, who reacted to every single moment of physical contact like he’d never been touched in his life, jumpy and confused and desperate. And maybe it just makes him cry harder, but he doesn’t... pull away.

Fuck it.

Eliot Waugh isn’t, and has never been, a _straight boy._

It takes careful maneuvering, to twist his way around in the confined space of the reading nook, carefully crawl up until he can curl up on his side facing Q. He settles there, their knees brushing, curling towards each other like closed parenthesis. Quentin’s got his face buried in his bottom arm, his right hand resting limply on the blankets between them, so Eliot reaches out. Hooks their pinkies together, just that little bit of contact.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, even though it’s not. Someone Quentin loves is dying, there’s no way that’s okay. But this, this moment between them, hidden away, that’s okay. “You’re not alone.”

“You keep saying that,” Quentin breathes out, and it’s half a laugh, half a sob. 

“Well,” Eliot swallows, tugging on Q’s pinky a little. “I guess it’s usually what I want to hear, when I feel like shit.”

Quentin nods, then he’s curling forward, pressing his wet face against the side of Eliot’s shoulder. Which is– a lot, really, but okay. Eliot gives up on being careful about not being the pushy-gay-best-friend and slides his fingers through Quentin’s, holding his hand tight. It’s gratifyingly reassuring how tightly Quentin grips back. 

“It is pretty good to hear,” Quentin admits, after a long enough period of time that Eliot has to play back the conversation in his brain to remember what exactly he’d said.

“You’re not alone,” he repeats, and feels Q squeeze his hand. “I’m here.”

He can feel Quentin nod, the pressure of it against his shoulder. All he can do is hold on, so that’s what he does, until Quentin’s cried himself out. Even then, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let go of Eliot’s hand, just lays next to him, a warm little ball of misery. Catching his breath. 

When he finally does pull back enough to look at Eliot, his face is red and puffy, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smile and oh. How has Eliot never noticed before that Quentin has dimples? He feels a twinge of that helpless little crush he’s been nurturing for months, and squashes it down. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eliot asks, because it seems like the thing to do, but Quentin shakes his head.

“Can you just... stay with me? For a little while?” He looks embarrassed to be asking, can’t quite meet Eliot’s eyes while he does it. “You can finish your homework. Or whatever, I don’t. I’m just.”

Eliot waves his hand, waving away the protest, and Quentin falls silent. Finally he meets Eliot’s eyes, and when Eliot smiles at him, he gets a weak one in return. “I don’t think I’m physically capable of absorbing any more Ancient Sumerian, at this point.”

Quentin snorts, and drags the sleeve of his shirt up over his eyes. “Our school is so fucking weird.”

Humming in agreement, Eliot reaches down to where the abandon Fillory book is laying on the blankets between them. Struck by a sudden idea, he picks it up, twisting onto his back so he can open the book on his chest. “What chapter were you on?”

“Um, nine?” Quentin answers, scooting a little closer so he can press his forehead against the point of Eliot’s shoulder. It’s the only point of contact between them, but Eliot’s hyper aware of it, like all his nerve-endings have been turned up to 11.

Taking a deep breath, Eliot flips to chapter nine, and begins to read aloud.  
__

They’re back at Brakebills for what feels like a heartbeat, just long enough to deposit Margo’s stolen fairy eggs and pick up Fen and Fray.

It’s also just long enough for Eliot to feel the Quentin-shaped hole in the room, the 5’8” space at his side where Q should be and _isn’t_ , and god, this is supposed to be getting easier. Distance was supposed to help him reconcile this other life in his head but it’s not, because now he’s on the same planet as Q for five fucking minutes and absolutely can not leave until he finds him. No matter what Margo says or threatens to do. 

Eliot knows he’s here, knows he came back to Brakebills after the frankly-disastrous boat-quest, but he’s not in his old room in the cottage, or Eliot’s, or– though Eliot’s not sure why he would be, Alice’s old room. But standing in Quentin’s room, which is a disaster zone of hoodies and jeans and books strewn everywhere, Eliot realizes he knows exactly where Q is.

He really should have checked there to begin with.

The sliding door to the reading nook is closed, but he can see from the outside that a light is turned on inside. Heart in his throat, Eliot raises his hand to knock, a special secret knock which a little boy from another time on another planet used to use as the password for a cottage door. 

Three soft taps come from the inside of the reading nook, and something he hadn’t known he was holding on too releases in Eliot’s chest. He slides the door open, looking in to find Q sitting at the far end, small smile on his face and knees pulled up to his chest.

“Hey,” he greets, resting his chin on his knees as Eliot clambers his gangly limbs into the little space, then slides the door shut.

“Hey.”

Q’s smile grows on his face, warm and bright, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his sweet soft dimples. “It’s good to see you,” Quentin says, small but sincere. His hair is hanging loose around his face, and that feels odd, but it– shouldn’t, really. Should it? Quentin usually wears his hair loose. 

“Really? Because it kind of seems like you were hiding from me,” Eliot points out, settling back against the wall. Like this, his feet are toe-to-toe with Quentin’s, and he taps the side of his boot against Q’s bare ankle, just to make him smile.

It works, and Eliot feels–

Too much. 

“Not from you,” Quentin clarifies, unwinding a little, stretching into a more relaxed posture. “Just kind of hiding.”

Eliot hums knowingly, watching Q fidget, then settle. He ducks his head down, curtain of hair falling into his face, and Eliot wants to push it back, tuck it behind his ear. Doesn’t.

“How long are you staying?”

Eliot sighs, feeling that constant ache which comes from being split between worlds. “Not long. Margo needs to get back before the fairies notice she’s gone. I just wanted to find you before we left.” 

Quentin looks up, then, and meets Eliot’s eyes with a frankness which is both new and very old. “You know... I remember, during the first couple of years at the mosaic, I’d go off and hide somewhere and kind of just wait to see how long it took you to come find me.”

“I remember that,” Eliot says, leaning his head back against the wall of the little nook. “It took me a little while to figure out that if you actually wanted to be left alone, you’d make it really fucking clear. Any other time, you just wanted to know I’d find you.”

Quentin snorts, and finally tucks his hair back behind his ear. “You always did, though.”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, because it’s true. He always did.

“It was kind of a dick thing to do,” Quentin mutters, giving Eliot a sheepish look. “I was kind of a dick when I was younger.”

“You’re younger again,” Eliot points out, and he can’t help the way his eyes track Quentin’s face, familiar and dear. The memories of watching age settle onto his skin are so fresh, they still threaten to choke Eliot, a love so deep and so true and so complex he can barely fathom it. 

“Well, I’m hiding again. So–” Quentin cuts himself off with an awkward laugh, hugging his arms around his knees again. He looks small, curled in on himself even in this tiny little space, and Eliot wants to hold him. Then his eyes flick up, warm and knowing. “But you still came and found me.”

_I think we both know I’m always going too,_ Eliot thinks, and doesn’t say. Doesn’t have to. He knows Q can read it on his face. Instead, he holds out an arm in wordless invitation, and maybe. Maybe he’s being cruel to both of them, because he said no to this and _can’t walk away from it._ It’s been barely two weeks of having a whole other life in his head, and he’d hope that it would get easier to sort out his feelings from the feelings of that other Eliot. _He’s_ never had a relationship that lasted longer than 4 months, much less a son and a home and a life-long love.

But it wasn’t getting clearer, if anything it was getting more muddled. It’s impossible to seperate how he feels for his Quentin from how _that man_ had felt for _that Quentin._ It’s impossible to look at his Quentin and not... know, deep in his bones, exactly what holding him when he’s sad feels like.

Impossible not to know exactly how much it helps him. 

Impossible not to offer it.

Quentin moves into his arms, and it’s maybe a little awkward in the tiny space, navigating both their limbs until they fit together. But they do fit together: Q’s compact little frame settling between Eliot’s legs like an exhale, back to chest. Eliot winds his arms around Quentin’s chest, feeling the expand-contract-expand of his ribs, the warmth of him. Hugging him has good reason to be familiar, Eliot’s done it many times. This, slotting together like puzzle pieces, this is a part of that other life.

_But I want it, too,_ he thinks desperately, selfishly, and hates himself because, well. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

“What are you reading?” he asks, desperately ignoring the ache in his chest, as Quentin cracks open his book, settling comfortably back into Eliot’s arms. 

“Book about dragons,” Quentin says, distracted, flipping through the pages clearly looking for something. “Poppy gave it to me.”

And then his ears turned red, which. Hello. Interesting. “Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot says, delighted. “Did you _fuck her_? You’ve known her for 3 days!”

“What!? No- I mean, I d-” Quentin sputtered, and Eliot starts laugh, holding Quentin to his chest, delighted.

“You did! You little slut,” Eliot teases, enjoying the delicate shade of pink Quentin’s whole face was turning. 

“If I _did_ , why would I tell _you_ about it?” Quentin grumbles, but he’s very much not pulling away. Embarrassed as hell, sure, but still comfortable in Eliot’s arms.

“You tell me everything,” Eliot murmurs, and it’s true, it’s always been true, even before it had any right to be true. Quentin had told him about Alice and the foxes, babbling in nerd-boy-got-his-dick-wet-excitement, and he’d told– The other Quentin had shared every moment of his love for his wife with Eliot. _His Eliot._

It was still true. Everyone else could have anything else they wanted from Q, but Eliot had his secrets.

Outside this little bubble of safety, this sheltered little place carved out in the world, a million problems waited to be solved but in here... In here Eliot could take a moment and hold Q tight and breathe, revell in this feeling of closeness he’d been missing like a piece of himself.

Q’s wearing a t-shirt, thin and soft, and worn black jeans, and it’s almost– it’s not quite– It’s so close to what– But Eliot’s still in his high Fillorian clothes, because he has to go back and fucking _rule a fucking kingdom_ and also save the fucking world, but– He doesn’t want to leave this, the feeling of Quentin’s soft t-shirt under his hands and his sweet little body between Eliot’s legs and his soft fucking hair against Eliot’s cheek feels like home except this wasn’t his life.

It wasn’t _his_ life.

It wasn’t his _life._

“El?” Quentin asks softly, twisting a little until his nose bumps Eliot’s chin, and only then does Eliot realize he’s maybe squeezing Quentin a little too hard. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” he lies, because he has to be okay. None of them have the option not to be okay right now. 

“Are you okay in the same way I’m okay?” Quentin asks, softly, temple still resting against Eliot’s cheek, and he’s so– he used to be so– he’s so fucking dear, the most precious thing.

“Probably,” Eliot admits, voice strangled, and he wants to kiss– 

But that’s _not his life._

_So why can’t I get you out of my stupid heart?_ he thinks, and squeezes his eyes closed, presses his cheek to Quentin’s hair. Q doesn’t say anything, but he does slide his left hand over Eliot’s on his stomach, twine their fingers together. 

“Think I can get away with staying for a little bit longer?” Eliot asks, quiet, in the fragile air around them.

Q’s squeezes his hand, settles more firmly into his arms. “You can stay as long as you need.”

It wasn’t true, but it was a nice thought.   
__

They don’t come back to Brakebills often anymore, not with Kady and Alice having the full reach of the Library at their disposal. But sometimes you just needed information that you didn’t want a semi-corrupt bunch of pencil-pushers filtering for you, and Eliot would double down on that belief _any time_ Fillory was involved. As far as he’s concerned, the less the Library is involved with Fillory, the better.

Plus, they are still technically enrolled in the school, if on somewhat... protracted... academic leave. Which meant they had access to all of Brakebills resources, including its libraries and its professors. Might as well take advantage of that. 

So Eliot’s here researching negative energy magic, and Quentin had tagged along in the name of doing research for the project he and Hedge Bitch were working on. It wasn’t like he really _needed_ an excuse to come along, not like Eliot was exactly going to make him stay behind with Margo. As far as Eliot’s concerned, he could have a Quentin shaped shadow for the rest of his life and it wouldn’t be long enough. 

But Q and Julia have hit a roadblock in their project, the general theme of which seems to be “undoing non-consensual body mods” or something to that effect. That’s about as far as Eliot’s understanding of it goes, anyway. He’s a physical kid. He makes shit fly around. Books about magical genetics are beyond him.

Whatever he’s looking for, Quentin’s having more luck with it than Eliot is. He’s got a small stack of books piled next to him and one open in front, bent over the table, rapidly translating ancient Greek as he reads.

Eliot did always love a brainy boy.

This particular brainy boy looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days, which Eliot knows isn’t even true. If anything, he’s been sleeping too much. Helping Q out of the pit he’d fallen into during his time with the monster is proving to harder than Eliot had hoped. Not harder than he expected, really, but harder than he hoped. Still, Q’s eating, and showering, and following Eliot on research missions. 

That isn’t nothing.

“I’m getting nowhere,” Eliot admits with some frustration, flipping the book on astral projection he’d been reading closed. “I don’t even know where to _start_ looking for this.”

“Maybe go talk to Sutherland,” Q suggest, making a sympathetic face as he looked up from his book. His soft short hair was flopping all over his face, and it made Eliot smile, quiet and private. “She can point you in the right direction at least.”

Eliot sighs, stretching his cramping limbs. The muscles in his side twinge a bit, and he winces. He feels about 4 million years old, Jesus. Never let a baby god monster possess your body for half a year, it ages you. “You’re probably right,” he admits, leaning heavily on the table has he stands. “You gonna stay here?”

“Yeah, I can’t take this one out,” Quentin says, distracted, eyes tracing back to the book. “Anti-decay charms, all of that.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Eliot slides his hand onto Q’s shoulder, feels Quentin lean into him. “Meet you back at the cottage?”

“Sounds good,” Quentin agrees, then tilts his face up for a kiss. Eliot gives it, because he will never, never, never again not kiss Q went he wants to be kissed. It’s soft, sweet and familiar, there and gone, but Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand on his shoulder. “Good luck.”

Sutherland, for all her annoying personal quirks, does actually have couple good suggestions for places to start. She even lends him a book on the physical disruptions caused by violent deaths, which she thinks might be a good place to pull from. Since no know really knows exactly what _dark magic_ is, it seems as reasonable a launch pad as any. 

Stepping into the Physical Kids Cottage makes bands of panic tighten around Eliot’s chest for a handful of seconds, until he can make himself stop and breathe deeply and take in the other people floating around. People Eliot doesn’t even _know_ , new first years and kids from Quentin’s class who never crossed his path. None of these people are people he would conjure in his mind.

In fact, the one person he _would_ and _had_ conjured is nowhere to be seen. He heads for the reading nook on autopilot, and it’s left open enough for him to see a familiar pair of scuffed black shoes through the crack. 

“Back in the old haunt,” he teases, sliding the door open to peek in at Q, who’s still reading intently, absentmindedly chewing on his thumbnail. 

“People don’t usually try to talk to me in here, with some very obvious exceptions,” Quentin quips back, his eyes sparkling a little. He moves his feet, a clear invitation, and one Eliot is glad to accept.

Clambering into the little space is definitely more painful than it was last time he’d done it– thanks baby monster so much for that. He takes a minute to breathe once he’s inside and the door is closed, letting his joints remember how to be joints again. When he opens his eyes, Q’s watching him with that pinched, concerned look.

“It’s getting better,” he promise, before Q can ask, and it is. Just... _fucking slowly_.

Still, Quentin makes a thoughtful noise and sets his book aside, pushing himself to crawl forward, and then Eliot has a lap full of Q. Which is always welcome, honestly, but especially when he flicks out a tut to generate heat from his hands, and pushes them into the meat of Eliot’s shoulders. It feels ridiculously good, honestly, easing the pain and stiffness away. He settles his own hands onto Quentin’s little hips, holding on as the relief seeps through him. 

“Better?” Quentin asks, and Eliot nods, grateful. 

“Much.”

“Good,” Quentin whispers, and kisses him, softly, warmly. It’s stays soft for a handful of heartbeats, then Q makes a happy sound and deepens it. His tongue flicks out to tease Eliot’s lip, then opens so sweetly, inviting him in. Eliot slides his hand into Quentin’s hair automatically, before he remembers where they are, why they’re here. He pulls back, and Quentin lets him go, but, well. He’s still very much in Eliot’s lap, with his sweet soft mouth and cute little nose.

“Did anyone ever blow you in here?” Quentin asks slyly, mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Which. Um. 

“Yes?” Eliot replies, and he doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but it’s also. Okay, fuck. Quentin’s biting his pretty pink lip and giving Eliot bedroom eyes, what’s _he supposed to do?_

“How was it?” Q asks, eyes still sparkling, and he’s not as shy about sex as he used to be, but this is unusually forward, even for him. 

“Mediocre,” Eliot hazards, because he was fucking high off his tits at the time and also he’s not entirely sure which of the doe-eyed boys he’d been flirting with then had followed into the nook. But to be fair, “I’m pretty sure I literally blacked out part way through, which was definitely my fault not his.”

“Bet I can do better,” Quentin whispers, and it’s still. A little off. Not quite right. 

“Baby, I know you can do better,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing his thumbs into Quentin’s hip bones where he’s still holding onto his waist. “But there’s people here, and it just feels weird when we don’t live here anymore.”

“Just means we don’t have to see these people ever again,” Q points out, eyes widen a fraction in that super intense look he gets where he’s trying to will you into doing what he’s asking. It makes Eliot laugh, a little, makes him want to kiss Quentin and hold him close. Which probably means the look works, but whatever.

Still. “Are you trying to use sex to hide from your feelings?” Eliot asks, as carefully as he can, running his hands up and down Quentin’s sides so he doesn’t feel– rejected. Eliot just needs to be careful with him, with this. It’s too important.

“Maybe,” Quentin admits, and there’s a sad little twist, a downward pull to his mouth, as he glances down. Slides his fingers down to toy with the chain on Eliot’s vest. “Maybe I’m trying to use sex to feel something good. Can you let me?”

Eliot’s heart aches, but. That honesty, oh love. They’ve worked so hard to get to the place where they can be this honest. Two lifetimes of work. “You know that I always want you. But... Can you tell me that you know I love you too?”

“I know you love me,” Quentin murmurs, and his eyes are maybe still sad, but they’re clear. He leans forward and tips their foreheads together, and with Q in his lap like this they’re almost of a height. He repeats it again, like a mantra, something to hold close in the darkness, “I know you love me.”

Eliot runs his hands across Quentin’s back, feels the expansion and contraction of his ribs, loves it. Loves him. _I can’t love the darkness away,_ he thinks, brushing his nose against Quentin’s, holding him, holding on. _But I can love you through it._

“Please,” Quentin whispers, and there’s a note of desperation to his voice, to the way he’s clinging to Eliot. “I know you love me, please let me feel it.”

“Okay. Yeah, of course, baby, anything,” Eliot breathes, and he’s never going to get tired of this, of the way kissing Quentin feels, slow and deep and hungry. Sliding his hands up the back of Quentin’s shirt, he revels in the softness of his skin, the heat of him, his lovely little weight in Eliot’s arms. He wants to kiss and kiss and _kiss_ forever, loving it. He _loves it,_ because Q loves it.

He knows there’s people on the other side of this single sliding panel door, knows they have to be very quiet, very careful. But he’d absolutely be lying if he said that didn’t make sparkles of excitement shoot down to his dick, swallowing down all of Q’s soft, bitten off sounds.

“You have to be very quiet,” Eliot reminds him, as Quentin pulls away. He just nods, eyes blown, as he wriggles out of Eliot’s lap and nudges Eliot’s legs apart so he can settle between them. And fuck, this is so– it’s so _fucking much._ “I can’t believe you want this, you kinky fuck.”

“I mean,” Quentin says pointedly, rubbing his hand pointedly over Eliot’s erection. 

“Yeah, but I know how depraved _I am._ I just keep being surprised by you.”

“I’m really not sure why, at this point,” Quentin says gravely, that sparkle back in his eye, as he works Eliot’s cock through the fly of his trousers. 

“Me too,” Eliot agrees, nonsensical, as Quentin fists him, grip sure and tight. His hand flies to the back of Q’s neck automatically, cupping his skull, guiding him forward. Watching his cock sink into Quentin’s sweet soft mouth is one of Eliot’s favorite sights, honestly, who decided that he got to have _this_ for _two lifetimes._

Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and jesus, he loves this, he _loves this._ Nothing got Q to relax faster than Eliot’s cock in his mouth. His hair’s flopping into his face, too short to tie back, and Eliot reaches for it, gently pushing it back off his face, feeling so tender inside it’s like a cramp.

“Q,” he breathes, and tries to keep it quiet, tries not to make noise, but it feels so fucking good, the velvety heat of Quentin’s mouth, the suction of it, the vibrations of the little sounds Quentin can’t entirely hold back as Eliot scratches lightly at his scalp. “Fuck, look at you, baby.”

Quentin’s eyes flick up to him, bright and _happy,_ fuck, what the hell, how is this _Eliot’s life._ His head thumps back against the wall of the reading nook, probably too loud, but can you blame him, Jesus wept. Quentin pulls back to work the head with his tongue, hand working Eliot’s shaft. Eliot can feel his thighs trembling with how good it feels, so _sweetwarmwet_ , pleasure curling low in his balls. 

It’s so good, it’s _so good like this_. Quentin’s good at this, he’s always been a natural at it, and there was something to be said for the power of sheer enthusiasm. “Q, I’m gonna–” Eliot warns, trying to keep his voice as low as humanly possible, even as his fingers tighten reflexively in Quentin’s soft hair. 

Q lets him ride it out, works him through it, drawing it out until Eliot’s starting to shy away with sensitivity. He coughs, a little, as he swallows, but then he’s crawling up to kiss Eliot and the taste of it in his mouth will never not be a thrill. Oh, Eliot loves him.

“Let me,” he suggest, trying to get his hands between them, but Q shakes his head. Brushes their noses together, and kisses him again, softly.

“I think we pushed our luck enough,” he points out wryly, bringing his sleeve up to wipe at his mouth. “Just... get me back when we get home?”

_Home._ Eliot wonders if he means the apartment in midtown or their homebase in Fillory. _Home is where you are,_ he thinks, and when he meets Quentin’s eyes, he can almost see the thought reflected back. Have partner, will travel.

“Of course. Anytime. Always.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Quentin teases, and leans in for another kiss. “The moment we get back to Fillory there will be fourteen things Margo needs you to do, none of which involve my dick.”

“Margo has to ask nicely before she gets to be involved with your dick,” Eliot says fastidiously, just because he knows it will make Q laugh, that crinkly eyed smile on his lips.

Quentin sags against him, going heavy and pliant as he tucks his head against the crook of Eliot’s neck. “Let’s just stay here for a little bit longer,” he asks, cuddling in close. “Let’s just... hide for a bit more.”

Who was Eliot to argue with that, really? It was an excellent hiding place.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/).


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